“I was,” I said.

“It appears to be Brenae’s. Obviously, the footage includes her, and the voice matches hers as well,” the detective said. “Though anyone could have sent it to Janis.”

“What did Hal Giroux say about it?” I asked.

Janis’s voice was low, almost tender. “Maggie, it’s my belief that Brenae’s suicide may be tied to Hal Giroux himself,” she said. “That’s why this has to be done so carefully.”

Hal Giroux. His name flowed like water through the history of the L.A. art world. He was the longtime director of the graduate program at LAAC, the launcher of dozens, maybe hundreds, of important careers. There was no love lost between him and Janis, but we showed his rising artists regularly at the Rocque.

“Here’s the note that came with the artwork,” said Janis, holding out a photocopy of a handwritten letter, the letters tense and clear.

Dear Ms. Rocque:

I have long been an admirer of you and your museum, and it was such a pleasure to meet you at the Chavez opening. I would be honored to invite you to my studio, but my college has become a hostile environment for me. Please view this example of my work, and perhaps we could arrange to meet elsewhere. I desperately need your help, and hope you will reply soon.

—Brenae Brasil

“I honestly don’t remember meeting her,” muttered Janis. “Some of those East Side openings are like heat waves in a sardine can, and I greet strangers as a way of fleeing.”

“How do we know it’s Brenae’s handwriting?” I asked.

“It matches samples from her apartment,” said the detective.

The last words in Brenae’s note sounded so vulnerable. “I wonder what help she wanted,” I said.

“I have been wondering that, too, ever since the moment I read it,” said Janis.

The sun had shifted again in the sky, falling on my end of the table like a brilliant wall.

“But how do you think Hal Giroux was involved?” I blinked through the light at Ray.

Instead of answering, he gestured to a waiter passing. “Can we move that umbrella over a little?”

We all waited while the waiter dragged a second umbrella closer to us. Cool shade poured over me.

“Someone deleted two files on her laptop after she died, judging by the medical examiner’s determined time of death,” he said. “In fact, not just deleted, but shredded. That means someone found her body and then made sure they got rid of this”—he held up the DVD—“and one other file. LASD ran into a dead end there, despite some rigorous attempts.”

A gunshot in the heart of LAAC. Files shredded. A paltry memorial. The death and its response didn’t match up.

“Out of curiosity,” I said, “what was Brenae wearing when she was found?”

I saw the detective exchange looks with Ray.